Hello Mr. Salim Lone! That is a remarkable story! I think the government, especially the security minister is kind of 'delaying' to deal with them since they happen to exist in a homogenous socio-political and cultural setting. This is an issue they need to address with acute intolerence.
I think the blame game between the security minister (executive) and the judiciary is a sort of scapegoat that offers a better and more fertile nursery bed for the growth of 'Mungiki' into a tyrannical empire within a lawful government. If they are allowed to advance their terror, archaic persecutions of innocent Kenyans, they will gain the mentality complex that they can even execute their terror on the leaders. After the innocent man on the street, who next?
With time (if they are allowed to 'grow') they will tend be more organised with complex networks and will be bleeding hungry to lead a nation. But, how can this come to pass, they will feel so superior as to attempt to stage a rebellion against the powers that be.
Mr. Salim, I think you should tell them how rebel groups, some of which have led to collapsed governments by taking power themselves, can be formented! This situation should be contained without fear or favour.
Good day
JM.
Friday 25 May 2007
A commet on Salim Lone's commentary, 'Beheadings in Kenya much more than security threats' (DN27thMay07)
Torn Between Hostilities
I witnessed the case of the fall out between a boda boda man with his wife, who had stayed out of the home for three days without permission. She had not even bothered to go back home and breast-feed their one-year-old toddler. This prompted the man to put his walk of life aside so he could take care of the toddler and his seven-year-old son.
When his wife went back home, he told her to return where she had been to.
“I’ve come to breast-feed my baby,” the woman said. She was not even bothered by her husband’s seriousness.
“After three days?” Untold dismay could be read on the man’s face. “After three days; then you remember to come and breast-feed your baby? Return to wherever place you’ve come from.”
The woman, determined not to yield to her husband’s threats went into the house to pick up the wailing baby. The irate husband pursued her to the house to teach her a lesson. All of a sudden, there came out the woman’s shrill cry. Some struggles ensued. After some time, the woman sped out of the house while holding the baby tightly in her bosom. The two were weeping loudly.
Their ten-year-old son, who had just come from school, arrived in time to witness the on-going curfew between his father and mother.
“Bring the child and return where you came from,” the man hollered insistently as he drew towards her in haste. He caught her and punched her in the face. Succeeding punches landed on the little toddler whom the woman had resolved to use as her shield.
“How can you stay out for three days without my knowledge unless you don’t want to care for the children? Unless you are a slut!” the man continued exuding his venom. He landed a grip on the toddler and snatched her from the mother. But for the mother’s speedy kneeling, the toddler could have landed head-on to the ground. The man held the toddler by the arm while with his other hand, continued administering his justice on the woman.
A few on lookers urged the woman to run for her life. She did. She took hold of their ten-year-old son and sought for refuge from her fuming husband. Thick blood oozed from her badly fractured nose. Her ten-year-old boy had joined her in the wailing.
“Let me never see you in this house again,” the boda boda fellow kept on thundering as he held the toddler in his arms. “As for this child, forget. I will breast feed her.”
I glared at the man and his critically wounded wife and pitied them. In fact, I pitied the two kids so much for the terror that had been inflicted in their tender innocent hearts and minds. The mere fall out between their parents the two kids from each other. And, since the boda boda man kept on proclaiming that he would bring in another woman in his wife’s place, the more serious trauma lay in their children. More so, I was greatly concerned about the fate of the toddler.
The two kids are the ones who shoulder immense suffering, both physically and psychologically. Young as they are, they are not mentally prepared to host such shame, bitterness, violence and trauma that results from their parents’ fall out. This engenders untold suffering to them. They end up thinking everybody in the world hates them; hence they reserve and resign into themselves.
Apart from being subject to the violence and horrific scenes of the tussle between their parents, such children countenance stigma and abuse from other children within their social spectrum. In schools, they become the favourite talk of other children: “Your father beat your mother and dumped her… You do not have a father or a mother… and the like.” They fall prey to such abuse that should otherwise have been eschewed.
This relegates them to self-rejection, stress and trauma. Sometimes, when the going becomes unbearable, they mete out violence on the offenders in a bid to silence them. The situation, more often that not, aggravates. In the long run, the child’s academic performance faces a bottleneck.
Why should this happen? Why do parents of such calibre resort to act on impulse? Fighting is never always the problem-arbiter. In any case the parents should attach immediate resolve to dialogue rather than irrational action through fist throwing and exchange of abuses. There’s more to dialogue than meets the eye. Sensitive domestic issues, which need not spill to the public ear end up being solved amicably where dialogue is initiated.
Most of the problems that we witness nowadays like family break-ups would be rare phenomena. My advice to such parents is, think before you leap. If you must leap, do it rationally in case you want to save the future life of your children. Otherwise, what’s the use of destroying the future life of your kids? Please, let’s save the kids for a healthy future.
When his wife went back home, he told her to return where she had been to.
“I’ve come to breast-feed my baby,” the woman said. She was not even bothered by her husband’s seriousness.
“After three days?” Untold dismay could be read on the man’s face. “After three days; then you remember to come and breast-feed your baby? Return to wherever place you’ve come from.”
The woman, determined not to yield to her husband’s threats went into the house to pick up the wailing baby. The irate husband pursued her to the house to teach her a lesson. All of a sudden, there came out the woman’s shrill cry. Some struggles ensued. After some time, the woman sped out of the house while holding the baby tightly in her bosom. The two were weeping loudly.
Their ten-year-old son, who had just come from school, arrived in time to witness the on-going curfew between his father and mother.
“Bring the child and return where you came from,” the man hollered insistently as he drew towards her in haste. He caught her and punched her in the face. Succeeding punches landed on the little toddler whom the woman had resolved to use as her shield.
“How can you stay out for three days without my knowledge unless you don’t want to care for the children? Unless you are a slut!” the man continued exuding his venom. He landed a grip on the toddler and snatched her from the mother. But for the mother’s speedy kneeling, the toddler could have landed head-on to the ground. The man held the toddler by the arm while with his other hand, continued administering his justice on the woman.
A few on lookers urged the woman to run for her life. She did. She took hold of their ten-year-old son and sought for refuge from her fuming husband. Thick blood oozed from her badly fractured nose. Her ten-year-old boy had joined her in the wailing.
“Let me never see you in this house again,” the boda boda fellow kept on thundering as he held the toddler in his arms. “As for this child, forget. I will breast feed her.”
I glared at the man and his critically wounded wife and pitied them. In fact, I pitied the two kids so much for the terror that had been inflicted in their tender innocent hearts and minds. The mere fall out between their parents the two kids from each other. And, since the boda boda man kept on proclaiming that he would bring in another woman in his wife’s place, the more serious trauma lay in their children. More so, I was greatly concerned about the fate of the toddler.
The two kids are the ones who shoulder immense suffering, both physically and psychologically. Young as they are, they are not mentally prepared to host such shame, bitterness, violence and trauma that results from their parents’ fall out. This engenders untold suffering to them. They end up thinking everybody in the world hates them; hence they reserve and resign into themselves.
Apart from being subject to the violence and horrific scenes of the tussle between their parents, such children countenance stigma and abuse from other children within their social spectrum. In schools, they become the favourite talk of other children: “Your father beat your mother and dumped her… You do not have a father or a mother… and the like.” They fall prey to such abuse that should otherwise have been eschewed.
This relegates them to self-rejection, stress and trauma. Sometimes, when the going becomes unbearable, they mete out violence on the offenders in a bid to silence them. The situation, more often that not, aggravates. In the long run, the child’s academic performance faces a bottleneck.
Why should this happen? Why do parents of such calibre resort to act on impulse? Fighting is never always the problem-arbiter. In any case the parents should attach immediate resolve to dialogue rather than irrational action through fist throwing and exchange of abuses. There’s more to dialogue than meets the eye. Sensitive domestic issues, which need not spill to the public ear end up being solved amicably where dialogue is initiated.
Most of the problems that we witness nowadays like family break-ups would be rare phenomena. My advice to such parents is, think before you leap. If you must leap, do it rationally in case you want to save the future life of your children. Otherwise, what’s the use of destroying the future life of your kids? Please, let’s save the kids for a healthy future.
Joshua Masinde
Lesson In The Hard Way-Encounter with a fresher in my fresher days
"I've come from very far; from deep inside real troubles." It's as if he is no longer himself. It was some kind of an informal appointment I had struck with him after he had previously asked me to be calling on him so he could tell me his bygone tribulations. Knowing damn well I didn't entertain tales that would offset me into instant dizziness, I just went. He was glad to see me.
"I used to push ass-carts, cut grass from deep inside thickets, wake up at dawn to milk several cows and later on, during the day, do what the prodigal son did that pumped sense into his noodle." He was obliged to ensure the swine had a well-balanced diet, each day.
"Why?"
It was the Devil of indolence and crude obstinacy and not himself that had inspired his vile situation. The Devil confided in him to abandon school once and for all time and to inform his father thus.
Could the old man adhere to such a serious contention said in jest? Considering the privilege he attached to education, more so in the higher circles of learning and the fact that his son was the only one in the entire clan, who had the potential of making it to the higher atmosphere of learning; this was pure nonsense. The mzee could not hear of it. The son too could not hear of it. Even after being subjected to the sting of the stroke on his natural seats, he remained indifferent to what his father liked: education. Since he couldn't make do with more of the strokes, his father resolved to get a helping hand from some askaris. The son eloped from home for a month, in which time; he ended up in the jungle of miseries and hard life.
How he could allude his experience to that of the prodigal son and fail to derive a lesson of significance from it, I failed to make out.
In his new life-system, he swallowed bhang smoke to make his life real. The more he had a puff at it, the more he cherished his new accomplices' common nonsense indoctrination on educational slavery.
When life proved too real, he had some options to consider: suicide, more bhang, more hard labour, but one sounded right to his tortured conscience. He would recite the decision before he went homeward bound.
"Father, having defied your noble conservatist rules and views on higher learning, I hereby present myself before thee for remission. Please, show me the path on which you want me to tread." His accomplices were sad to have so lost a devoted member of their ganja club.
He bitterly learned to value what his father valued. So, he is now happy that he is pursuing a degree course in Community Psychology rather than biding his time in a remote village on a neo-modernist black settler's farm undertaking odd jobs for a 'hand-to-mouth' remuneration. Even so, everything seems quite a fantasy to him. It's an odyssey of fairies he had learned to contend with.
He now hands me a cup; rather, a mug of tea. Courtesy, isn't it?
Joshua Masinde
Friday 18 May 2007
Writing from the heart
She is a soft-spoken lady with a warm and radiant smile. She finds fulfilment in the way she is as a writer, and is happily married. Her greeting is authentically African: "How are your parents, how are the chicken, the goats, the beans?"
Born 42 years ago, she began to write in early nineties. What motivated her in depth was the International Writing Scholarship she received from Iowa University in the US. She speaks fondly of her second book, 'Secrets No More', published in 1999. The book details the story of Marina, a girl of about twelve years in the then genocide-strewn Rwanda. The girl experiences the nightmare of the strife in which her parents are slain. She becomes a victim of rape by a drunkard.
The inspiration to pen down this moving narrative grew after her encounter with a Journalist and his writings on the genocide. More than five hundred people had been slain in the church. The story touched her passionately. Though, more than a hundred books on the same subject of the 1994 Rwanda genocide had been authored, she couldn't resist the urge to write a story of her own on the same tragedy.
Why did she use a young girl for her protagonist? She argues it was spontaneous. The girl character came naturally and readily to her mind. In fact, she professes to identify readily with females. Herself being a woman cannot be ruled out. Being thus, she wanted to project the brutality and violence women face in the hands of men, just as it was commonplace during the Rwanda genocide in 1994.
What inspired her to write? The many stories that were the essence of life were her inspiration. Having been raised in rural Uganda by her grandmother, she was told many stories, especially in the evening. This was a fundamental knot, which instilled the writing spirit in her during her formative years.
At about the age of twelve, she had an irresistible urge to read. Unfortunately, there were no books in school. However, there is a time her elder sister came home with a copy of Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart.' She laid her hands on the book and began to read. The more she read the book, the more she felt an urge to write a story of her own. She says of one Nigerian scholar that a story that must be told respects no silence. It will strangle you in the night if you don't tell it.
How were her stories received? Her other novel 'The First daughter', published in 1996, was to her, a slow but interesting story. It was well received, especially by schools in the West Nile region in Uganda. "Schools, mostly in the West Nile bought a thousand copies," she says. This was a gateway to the numerous letters she began to receive from schoolgirls. They had many questions and problems, which they wanted her to address. One particular teenage girl wrote, "Auntie, I am pregnant." The girl was fifteen years old. The impact her writing had on the girls was very positive to her. She was not just a writer, but also a counsellor, auntie and a teacher to them.
After the publication of 'Whispers From Vera’ in 2002, she received a phone call from a gentleman, who wanted to meet Vera. Reason? "He wanted to take her to bed", because of the sexually arousing mood the story on Vera had been designed.
The author is not disappointed, though. The fact that her message got home is her joy. The juice of her inspiration is to write a good story. "I want to tell a good story," is her greatest pre-occupation. She wants to appeal to readers to catch the fever of her story. Her main concern is, "Why men had undue privileges over women?"
Nonetheless, many queries have been put across on "Secrets No More" Why does she picture sex vividly? For instance, there are two explicit rape scenes in the novel. The first occurs when Marina’s mother, Mukundane is being raped. She is later murdered. The second incident happens when Marina, her daughter is also raped. Although, she is married to George, she always feels she is being raped when they make love. Later, after she falls in love with Dee, George’s companion, who seduces her with a lascivious panorama, she realises that good sex happens outside marriage. The author portrays rape as a violent act. It stirs outrage and censure. In no other way could she present it as she presents it. It was brutal and it merited being told the way it happened.
How has she overcome some of the hurdles to make it such far? Personal empowerment has been of great vitality. She aims at telling the story from her heart. Though, limited time is challenge to one who has a husband, children, in-laws et al to attend to, she keeps a journal within reach at whatever point she feels an urge to write. For one who writes all the time, it is inevitable to jot down every bit of the necessary imagination that strikes her psyche.
Mrs. Goretti Kyomuhendo is the coordinator of FEMRITE (Uganda Women Writers' Association). This is a gender-defined publishing counterfeit establishing eleven years ago. Working with FEMRITE has made her what she wanted to be: a champion of the cause of women. She is a feminist and looks to the day when men would regard women as their mothers, sisters and daughters. "The world would change," she points out.
After establishing FEMRITE, eleven years now, fourteen titles, all by Uganda women writers have so far been published. It is a milestone considering that men had dominated the writing sphere. She feels that women are natural storytellers. "We should tell our stories."
Though, FEMRITE has made it such far, it still has no branches in the rural areas because of insufficient capacity. Goretti believes that come light of day, they will spread the tentacles in order to reach as many women as possible. There is very rich talent within their hearts and minds, but with a few miners to tap such talent.
Born 42 years ago, she began to write in early nineties. What motivated her in depth was the International Writing Scholarship she received from Iowa University in the US. She speaks fondly of her second book, 'Secrets No More', published in 1999. The book details the story of Marina, a girl of about twelve years in the then genocide-strewn Rwanda. The girl experiences the nightmare of the strife in which her parents are slain. She becomes a victim of rape by a drunkard.
The inspiration to pen down this moving narrative grew after her encounter with a Journalist and his writings on the genocide. More than five hundred people had been slain in the church. The story touched her passionately. Though, more than a hundred books on the same subject of the 1994 Rwanda genocide had been authored, she couldn't resist the urge to write a story of her own on the same tragedy.
Why did she use a young girl for her protagonist? She argues it was spontaneous. The girl character came naturally and readily to her mind. In fact, she professes to identify readily with females. Herself being a woman cannot be ruled out. Being thus, she wanted to project the brutality and violence women face in the hands of men, just as it was commonplace during the Rwanda genocide in 1994.
What inspired her to write? The many stories that were the essence of life were her inspiration. Having been raised in rural Uganda by her grandmother, she was told many stories, especially in the evening. This was a fundamental knot, which instilled the writing spirit in her during her formative years.
At about the age of twelve, she had an irresistible urge to read. Unfortunately, there were no books in school. However, there is a time her elder sister came home with a copy of Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart.' She laid her hands on the book and began to read. The more she read the book, the more she felt an urge to write a story of her own. She says of one Nigerian scholar that a story that must be told respects no silence. It will strangle you in the night if you don't tell it.
How were her stories received? Her other novel 'The First daughter', published in 1996, was to her, a slow but interesting story. It was well received, especially by schools in the West Nile region in Uganda. "Schools, mostly in the West Nile bought a thousand copies," she says. This was a gateway to the numerous letters she began to receive from schoolgirls. They had many questions and problems, which they wanted her to address. One particular teenage girl wrote, "Auntie, I am pregnant." The girl was fifteen years old. The impact her writing had on the girls was very positive to her. She was not just a writer, but also a counsellor, auntie and a teacher to them.
After the publication of 'Whispers From Vera’ in 2002, she received a phone call from a gentleman, who wanted to meet Vera. Reason? "He wanted to take her to bed", because of the sexually arousing mood the story on Vera had been designed.
The author is not disappointed, though. The fact that her message got home is her joy. The juice of her inspiration is to write a good story. "I want to tell a good story," is her greatest pre-occupation. She wants to appeal to readers to catch the fever of her story. Her main concern is, "Why men had undue privileges over women?"
Nonetheless, many queries have been put across on "Secrets No More" Why does she picture sex vividly? For instance, there are two explicit rape scenes in the novel. The first occurs when Marina’s mother, Mukundane is being raped. She is later murdered. The second incident happens when Marina, her daughter is also raped. Although, she is married to George, she always feels she is being raped when they make love. Later, after she falls in love with Dee, George’s companion, who seduces her with a lascivious panorama, she realises that good sex happens outside marriage. The author portrays rape as a violent act. It stirs outrage and censure. In no other way could she present it as she presents it. It was brutal and it merited being told the way it happened.
How has she overcome some of the hurdles to make it such far? Personal empowerment has been of great vitality. She aims at telling the story from her heart. Though, limited time is challenge to one who has a husband, children, in-laws et al to attend to, she keeps a journal within reach at whatever point she feels an urge to write. For one who writes all the time, it is inevitable to jot down every bit of the necessary imagination that strikes her psyche.
Mrs. Goretti Kyomuhendo is the coordinator of FEMRITE (Uganda Women Writers' Association). This is a gender-defined publishing counterfeit establishing eleven years ago. Working with FEMRITE has made her what she wanted to be: a champion of the cause of women. She is a feminist and looks to the day when men would regard women as their mothers, sisters and daughters. "The world would change," she points out.
After establishing FEMRITE, eleven years now, fourteen titles, all by Uganda women writers have so far been published. It is a milestone considering that men had dominated the writing sphere. She feels that women are natural storytellers. "We should tell our stories."
Though, FEMRITE has made it such far, it still has no branches in the rural areas because of insufficient capacity. Goretti believes that come light of day, they will spread the tentacles in order to reach as many women as possible. There is very rich talent within their hearts and minds, but with a few miners to tap such talent.
Appeared in Daily Monitor, 8th April 2007
Joshua Masinde.
Such laziness in building the nation!
Joseph, the foster father of Jesus was a carpenter. Jesus was his ‘part-time assistant.’ It was a business strategy for which Joseph struck an honest living for his household.
Ok. I am talking about carpentry and some of these biting bugs-carpenters. Joseph must surely suffer from humiliation courtesy of some of today’s ‘efficient and lazy-less’ carpenters!
A friend of mine had just placed an order for a table and a chair from this little known carpenter. It was on a Sunday afternoon. The bargain progressed well and was fair. He paid eighty percent of the money required for both the chair and the table.
“Come tomorrow at three,” the carpenter said. A big smile ate his mouth as the appetite for swallowing the money bit him like a bug.
“You will get your things tomorrow,” the carpenter said again and again.
I recalled the little story of a carpenter in our village. He admitted that one can never beat a carpenter at his own game. In any case, you should never take his promises and assurances very seriously. You must surely have the positive disease of patience in order to get your furniture in two or three weeks’ time when you had been asked to come in two or three days to do it.
“Expect postponed decisions from the carpenter in order to get your furniture,” is what I told Steve.
The following day, Steve armed himself with anger and headed to the carpenter’s enterprise. It was some minutes before three. The carpenter was nowhere to be seen. For the next four days, the situation was the same. The fellow emerged four days later.
“You will get your things tomorrow,” were the very words that came out of his smile-deficient mouth. Steve was fuming. He was very impatient with the fellow
I don't think Joseph was such a short changer. I have never read anywhere where his inefficiency or laziness is pointed out. But, such bug of inefficiency and indolence bit our carpenters long ago and are lazily dragging themselves in building the nation.
It is not unusual to find most of them in their merchandise waiting to play cards with you. Ironically, most of them can do a very wonderful job for you.
There's even some other client who sat in the hot sun, awaiting some final touches to be made on his bed. He had waited for three weeks but his patience was not bearing any fruits. He had been assured it would be finished in three days' time.
"The only time these guys were efficient and did first rate work is when they made Jesus' cross. It never even took them time to nail Him on the cross," the impatient fellow claimed. "It was some painful experience, but they did it quick."
Why does it take some of them two or more days to make a stool or chair that should be done in two days or less?
While building for the nation, such laziness and inefficiency should be condemned. The rate of personal development side tracks the rate of one's (in)efficiency at work or in business. This bug of inefficiency should be shoved somewhere in a corner where it can't get the guts to bite us once in a while.
Joshua Masinde
When I was 'mothered' from every angle
A peek into my childhood days unveils a nostalgic fondness that strikes my heart with lasting affection. I love every memory of it.
At the time, all my siblings were boys. I was very close to the first with whom I manoeuvred into every notorious adventure that popped up in our minds. We had a clique of peers whom we spent all the happy and sad days in the fantasy of adventure. We were the real celebs of the village since we were known for all manner of notoriety. I was terribly shy when it came to an encounter with my sisters of the world, not of blood. Though, I was always under admiration by a horde of lasses, I could not manage a kind look in reception to their genuine admiration. I was ever shy, though a smile always hang on my face.
At one time, a girl who was a year older than me, came and told me that she needed me to be her childhood spouse. She had a very strong urge to take care of me. I remember we used to erect safe havens in the bushes where we could hide away and take care of each other mutually. Some hidden thicket that looked like a cave was the best den for our adventure. We would busy ourselves making a good haven out of it and decorate within like a real hut. Then, some girl would sneak in a mat and some niceties from her home to grace the occasion of our solicitude more affectionately. Then, we would spend some time on the mat, expressing mutual affection to each other.
On another occasion, another girl I knew as Lilly waylaid me on the way from the river and tapped me on the back. Since my elder peers and brother had left me far behind, she used the opportunity to express her care and concern for poor me. She crouched down and beckoned me to climb on her back. She even offered to carry my five litre jerry can of water on her head as we would head back home. I would seem relieved at the not so weird offer, but my eyes would wet with tears at her invaluable care.
Right back home, she would ask for permission from my mum to allow us to go play hide and seek. That would go up to late in the night. Sometimes, mum would bump into us trying to advance further our affection by going physical.
The same affection would take another dimension while at school. I was in primary three then. My head was so thick that I could not absorb anything academic. Naturally, some two lasses in my class offered to do most of my assignments so that I would escape the wrath of the teachers. There is a time they protested in class when our English madam wanted to cane me for being absent the previous day without permission. They pleaded with her to spare the rod against me. I later learnt that she was their aunt.
A few years later, I badly hurt my foot on the floor of our class. A certain lass who had always considered me as her favourite boy used the opportunity to show-case her affection towards me in the face of the whole class. She shed some tears to express her sympathy for the pain I felt. She then took out her white hanky, carefully wiped out the blood and wrapped the wound to stop it from further bleeding. She then wiped the floor to rid it from the blood marks and sat me down for consolation. She shared the pain with me and I was so touched by such priceless show of solicitude.
"I would nurse the wound until it heals," she told me. Sometimes, as we headed back home after school hours, she would ask if it sounded right for me to climb on her back since she wanted me to reach home safely.
My elder brother was always keen on exploiting the chances which seemed to be my prerogative. He vowed to be a real conquest if the chance came his way. After some consultations with some of his peers, I saw him go into a bush to dig up hibiscus roots, which he dried and burnt to ashes. He then blended the ashes with smearing oil and made a concoction out of it.
"This will work magic," he assured me. He divided them into two portions and hid one in the grass-thatched roof of our hut.
We had a popular notion that wherever a boy applied this concoction on his palms and greeted a girl, the magic would compel her follow him to wherever he went. The phenomenon would only stop after he had a share of the sacred fruit.
The fact that I was very humble, quiet, reserved and naïve was the magic he failed to adopt. He was a hero of fantasy and couldn’t think of clinging on my ideals. I saw him greet a girl in the neighbourhood, after which they vanished into maize plantations. I tracked them a few minutes later and bumped into them expressing their naive romance to each other. I vowed to report him to dad but he begged me not to. He even promised to bribe me with a slice of bread whenever we would have bread at breakfast. He became very humble, though his permissive adventure was not so much in my mind.
A void of loneliness lies in my head over the death of those affectionate childhood days. Those are the days when girls understood the true essence of affection and who was best suited such affection: the humblest of all human creatures. Many years up the memory lane, I still long for those nostalgic days we shared in our rural home.
Now that I have not opened my heart yet for love siege, I am deeply contemplating the idea. But before that, I am awaiting a recurrence of the magic of love and affection that was owed to me by my lovely childhood ‘mothers.’
Joshua Masinde
At the time, all my siblings were boys. I was very close to the first with whom I manoeuvred into every notorious adventure that popped up in our minds. We had a clique of peers whom we spent all the happy and sad days in the fantasy of adventure. We were the real celebs of the village since we were known for all manner of notoriety. I was terribly shy when it came to an encounter with my sisters of the world, not of blood. Though, I was always under admiration by a horde of lasses, I could not manage a kind look in reception to their genuine admiration. I was ever shy, though a smile always hang on my face.
At one time, a girl who was a year older than me, came and told me that she needed me to be her childhood spouse. She had a very strong urge to take care of me. I remember we used to erect safe havens in the bushes where we could hide away and take care of each other mutually. Some hidden thicket that looked like a cave was the best den for our adventure. We would busy ourselves making a good haven out of it and decorate within like a real hut. Then, some girl would sneak in a mat and some niceties from her home to grace the occasion of our solicitude more affectionately. Then, we would spend some time on the mat, expressing mutual affection to each other.
On another occasion, another girl I knew as Lilly waylaid me on the way from the river and tapped me on the back. Since my elder peers and brother had left me far behind, she used the opportunity to express her care and concern for poor me. She crouched down and beckoned me to climb on her back. She even offered to carry my five litre jerry can of water on her head as we would head back home. I would seem relieved at the not so weird offer, but my eyes would wet with tears at her invaluable care.
Right back home, she would ask for permission from my mum to allow us to go play hide and seek. That would go up to late in the night. Sometimes, mum would bump into us trying to advance further our affection by going physical.
The same affection would take another dimension while at school. I was in primary three then. My head was so thick that I could not absorb anything academic. Naturally, some two lasses in my class offered to do most of my assignments so that I would escape the wrath of the teachers. There is a time they protested in class when our English madam wanted to cane me for being absent the previous day without permission. They pleaded with her to spare the rod against me. I later learnt that she was their aunt.
A few years later, I badly hurt my foot on the floor of our class. A certain lass who had always considered me as her favourite boy used the opportunity to show-case her affection towards me in the face of the whole class. She shed some tears to express her sympathy for the pain I felt. She then took out her white hanky, carefully wiped out the blood and wrapped the wound to stop it from further bleeding. She then wiped the floor to rid it from the blood marks and sat me down for consolation. She shared the pain with me and I was so touched by such priceless show of solicitude.
"I would nurse the wound until it heals," she told me. Sometimes, as we headed back home after school hours, she would ask if it sounded right for me to climb on her back since she wanted me to reach home safely.
My elder brother was always keen on exploiting the chances which seemed to be my prerogative. He vowed to be a real conquest if the chance came his way. After some consultations with some of his peers, I saw him go into a bush to dig up hibiscus roots, which he dried and burnt to ashes. He then blended the ashes with smearing oil and made a concoction out of it.
"This will work magic," he assured me. He divided them into two portions and hid one in the grass-thatched roof of our hut.
We had a popular notion that wherever a boy applied this concoction on his palms and greeted a girl, the magic would compel her follow him to wherever he went. The phenomenon would only stop after he had a share of the sacred fruit.
The fact that I was very humble, quiet, reserved and naïve was the magic he failed to adopt. He was a hero of fantasy and couldn’t think of clinging on my ideals. I saw him greet a girl in the neighbourhood, after which they vanished into maize plantations. I tracked them a few minutes later and bumped into them expressing their naive romance to each other. I vowed to report him to dad but he begged me not to. He even promised to bribe me with a slice of bread whenever we would have bread at breakfast. He became very humble, though his permissive adventure was not so much in my mind.
A void of loneliness lies in my head over the death of those affectionate childhood days. Those are the days when girls understood the true essence of affection and who was best suited such affection: the humblest of all human creatures. Many years up the memory lane, I still long for those nostalgic days we shared in our rural home.
Now that I have not opened my heart yet for love siege, I am deeply contemplating the idea. But before that, I am awaiting a recurrence of the magic of love and affection that was owed to me by my lovely childhood ‘mothers.’
Joshua Masinde
Tuesday 15 May 2007
Why we lag behind
Opinion REFLECTIONS May 8, 2007
Appeared on The Daily Monitor.
For any nation to attain its development goals, its people must be empowered. Leaders must mobilise the masses to utilise available resources to empower themselves.
What do we see at the moment? We are still dragging ourselves in the early stages of development. Many years after independence, we are still enslaved by indigence, ignorance and diseases. We are a beautiful people. Our land is a haven of unexplored riches. What makes us lag behind?
We are still engrossed in parochial self-serving politics. If people are not empowered to produce something for themselves, such a people are prey to a bleak future.
They fall victim to the antics of the more developed societies and will do anything to earn a living. One prominent African scholar decried, "One of Africa’s biggest exports will be human resources in fifty years time." There will be massive ‘slave trade of the educated’ to the developed nation.
No resource is more powerful than good governance and the empowerment of the masses. But, four decades after independence, we still take the lead in bad government. Most of our leaders are old tyrants, who have no vision for the empowerment of the masses. It is a sad story.
We are under the threat of a new form of colonialism: recolonisation. Can we avert this new threat?
The donors give where there is a lot is taking. Their little giving is simply aimed to necessitate a smooth sailing-back to Africa journey, to exploit our resources. The prospects of oil in Uganda, is an incentive to them. Shall we have the capacity to refine the crude oil? No, and this is why it will be sold back to us expensively after we have exported it.
We should wake up. Our leaders should lead by example. We need a clear cut vision into a clear future of prosperity.
Joshua Masinde
Monday 14 May 2007
Remarkable Odyssey
Salutation to you, my friend. It has been a long century since we last lost sight of each other. In fact, it is by pure coincidence that our fathers destined us to meet, so for today. Otherwise, I would still be engrossed in my miserable journey; a remarkable odyssey I will never live to remember for I have been reduced to a culprit of my loose morals. Ok, you always kept yours tight but I know you will not abstain after you eventually walk down the aisle with your sweet angel, perhaps angeless-whichever you prefer.
I began to keep a low profile after I realised that out of the legions, who had been put in the red light, I was (un)lucky to come out as an especial instrument of victimisation. Now, I am delighting in this favour every moment I breathe. It is a privilege to feel so.
Do I sound strange? I felt it some day gone when I had not regained my good piece of peace to sound the way I am doing. No one would allow me to speak to them for they already had a smell of my misdemeanour and what became of me. They loathed me like the Devil. Not even one among them yearned to encounter me on the way and greet me with the warmth of our biblical brotherhood. In a way, I felt privileged to exist in a humane society in which I have countenanced long-term ostracisement and rejection. My companion became torturous lonesomeness. In it, I sensed some autonomy, which ate my conscience like a hungry beast that had not seen the face of food for forty days. Lucky me! It is only you I could speak to.
Let me now embrace this precious timeliness to sound like a soldier of conquest turned an apostle of sad memoirs. How could folks unravel the secret seeds of such destruction and fail to open their ears wide open when I spoke to them about it? If so they heard, how could they feel convicted when all they heard with one ear exited through the other? I wonder!
Perhaps, I could relay this piece of sad memory in black and white. A serious epistle it could be. Those who would not bear to hear me out could read it. I perceive the epistle might at one time of confusion, have its way into the Library of Books: The Epistle of Miserable Joe to his friend. Nevertheless, before that, I could still preach the good message and encourage people to walk their talk in whatever circumstances. In so doing, I would; unlike in my heydays of self-indulgence, practice what I'd be preaching. It is so wonderful, not so? I will convince many more to stop putting themselves in the shoes of the good New Testament Thomas whenever I preach to them.
Thanks to my decent-some demeanour, nothing will bar me from sensitising my historical; rather, my biological brothers and sisters to keep me closer to the memory of their hearts and so, distance themselves from the acts of perversion. In all this, my experience will be nurtured to make me not only a seasoned philosopher of good will, but also an apostle of moral refinement. Period!
Only one impossible dream do I have to nurse. I look forward to the infinite day when I will be holier than the Library of Books or perhaps; holier than thou so I could easily be the heir to the moral kingdom of our fathers. Even so, I encourage you to stand up for your morality and you will escape the free-doom of our days. In whichever way you view my reasons, you will be grateful I reminded you so.
Since my days are short, do me one favour: Read this epistle to the mourners and revellers at my funeral.
P.S. Do invite me to your funeral when your time comes.
Joshua Masinde
I began to keep a low profile after I realised that out of the legions, who had been put in the red light, I was (un)lucky to come out as an especial instrument of victimisation. Now, I am delighting in this favour every moment I breathe. It is a privilege to feel so.
Do I sound strange? I felt it some day gone when I had not regained my good piece of peace to sound the way I am doing. No one would allow me to speak to them for they already had a smell of my misdemeanour and what became of me. They loathed me like the Devil. Not even one among them yearned to encounter me on the way and greet me with the warmth of our biblical brotherhood. In a way, I felt privileged to exist in a humane society in which I have countenanced long-term ostracisement and rejection. My companion became torturous lonesomeness. In it, I sensed some autonomy, which ate my conscience like a hungry beast that had not seen the face of food for forty days. Lucky me! It is only you I could speak to.
Let me now embrace this precious timeliness to sound like a soldier of conquest turned an apostle of sad memoirs. How could folks unravel the secret seeds of such destruction and fail to open their ears wide open when I spoke to them about it? If so they heard, how could they feel convicted when all they heard with one ear exited through the other? I wonder!
Perhaps, I could relay this piece of sad memory in black and white. A serious epistle it could be. Those who would not bear to hear me out could read it. I perceive the epistle might at one time of confusion, have its way into the Library of Books: The Epistle of Miserable Joe to his friend. Nevertheless, before that, I could still preach the good message and encourage people to walk their talk in whatever circumstances. In so doing, I would; unlike in my heydays of self-indulgence, practice what I'd be preaching. It is so wonderful, not so? I will convince many more to stop putting themselves in the shoes of the good New Testament Thomas whenever I preach to them.
Thanks to my decent-some demeanour, nothing will bar me from sensitising my historical; rather, my biological brothers and sisters to keep me closer to the memory of their hearts and so, distance themselves from the acts of perversion. In all this, my experience will be nurtured to make me not only a seasoned philosopher of good will, but also an apostle of moral refinement. Period!
Only one impossible dream do I have to nurse. I look forward to the infinite day when I will be holier than the Library of Books or perhaps; holier than thou so I could easily be the heir to the moral kingdom of our fathers. Even so, I encourage you to stand up for your morality and you will escape the free-doom of our days. In whichever way you view my reasons, you will be grateful I reminded you so.
Since my days are short, do me one favour: Read this epistle to the mourners and revellers at my funeral.
P.S. Do invite me to your funeral when your time comes.
Joshua Masinde
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